ink hits the wall the words seem
dead
the hydrant sits and watches
asphalt carries what it supports
and lately, she has become matters—
in importance, in races, faster the
star
is silent.
the carpet has memories, the skies
are
insane, the mug has shattered;
coffee
trickles into a crevice, behind the
refrigerator—a mouse makes a noise,
steam wafts knee high.
take beauty for its depth. does it
mean
essence? two cents for thoughts,
poets
pay quickly—we reread the château,
the shelter near the pond, the
widow
in the attic, the grandfather,
alone,
eating a bowel of Campbell’s.
at times, a jester appears to me;
he
mocks, he pecks at wood, he knits a
perfect inconsistency.
the edifice is solid. it has stood
for
centuries. the wires hang low. mom
and pop ignore the glitch, in time,
two
become comfortable.
signals are sailing. healing is
hailing.
the walls wail into wilderness;
aches
attract aches; the fire is
smoldering
on ice—the shadow is filled with
florescence.
classroom violence, filled with
tones,
what was ignored, became ruthless.
